bam! pow! smASH!

14th February 2013

Post with 23 notes

A friend of mine let me borrow The Little Prince.

If someone loves a flower of which just one example exists among all the millions and millions of stars, that’s enough to make him happy when he looks at the stars. He tells himself, “my flower’s up there somewhere…”

But if the sheep eats the flower, then for him it’s as if, suddenly, all the stars went out. And that isn’t important?

—-

“You’re lovely, but you’re empty,” he went on. “One couldn’t die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she’s the one I watered.

Since she’s the one I put under glass.

Since she’s the one I sheltered behind a screen.

Since she’s the one for whom I killed the caterpillars.

Since she’s the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all.

Since she’s my rose.”

—-

You risk tears if you let yourself be tamed.  

11th February 2013

Post with 51 notes

I really didn’t want this to become one of those self-indulgent, ramble about my feelings and my pain that’s so unique blogs like I did on live journal when I was in middle school. But there is something cathartic about sharing pain in a way that is both public and indirect. That said, I still find it helpful to put the pain into a narrative structure, so I can pretend it’s art and not whining.

ASHLY BURCH AND DEATH GET COFFEE

Death sits at a table in front of a mediocre coffee shop. She wears a red summer dress, and men look at her as they walk by. When she winks at them, they feel cold and disturbed. Most of them still masturbate to her when they get home.

Ashly approaches and takes a seat across from her. Death adjusts her dress.

“Are you going to get coffee?” Death asks.
“I don’t drink coffee,” Ashly corrects.  

Death closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose in irritation. “Fine. I’ll get coffee.” 

Death gets coffee. She doesn’t drink it, and it never cools down.

“I don’t really have a lot of…confidence anymore? In things? Or myself? Is that a thing that happens?” Ashly asks. 
“Probably. I don’t usually pay attention to the aftermath.”
“I should really find someone else to talk to.”

Death sighs, uncrosses her legs and places her hands on the table.

“Look, you’re going to feel and do a bunch of shit. You’re going to feel nothing, then you’ll feel empty, then you’ll feel angry, then tired. You’ll eat a cheeseburger and then feel guilty about it. You’ll forget your mom’s birthday. You’ll hate yourself. You’ll hate him. Just — you know — do those things. I guess.” 

Ashly looks at her.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you?”
“No. No one else does either. Just FYI. All that sounds right, though. I’ve seen a bunch of movies about this. Like Silver Linings Playbook, you watch that movie? Girl in it fucks a lot of people after her husband dies.”
Ashly looks at her.
“Maybe you should do that.” Death suggests. 

There’s a silence. Ashly takes Death’s coffee and takes a sip.

“I fucking hate coffee.”